


sincere guile

by cruelzy



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Fluff, Mind Manipulation, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 00:50:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19878877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruelzy/pseuds/cruelzy
Summary: say something. anything. follow me into nothing and everything and all which breathes between.





	sincere guile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedarklings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedarklings/gifts).



> for my bougee love <3
> 
> pre! sp:ffh

“Good _morning_.”

“And to what,” comes the amused hum, “do I owe the honour?”

The low purr of his voice alone eggs you on to a hapless smile. Your thoughts rise to a crescendo that near mutes the radio, but you are not yet so far gone to ignore the shrill blast of a horn behind you. You imagine surging forward out of pure spite, crumpled cars parting like sea. 

“I believe a certain someone owes me a date.” 

“That was today?”

“Funny.” You give a dry bark of laughter. “You’re so funny. Hold on. I’m crying.”

He makes a noncommittal sound in the thick of his throat, and you can practically _hear_ the eye-roll over the phone. “ _Sweetheart._ I _am_ the one who set this up, yes?” 

You absentmindedly nod in confirmation, half twisted to look over your shoulder, before your brain catches up with you. “’mmhm,” you manage to let out, squinting against the curtain of water at your back windshield. 

“Why are you really calling?”

You pause to allow an acceptable amount of irritation to bleed into your voice. “What do you mean?”

“You already know I always deliver on my plans.” There’s a brief chop of static before, “ _Ah.”_ Where he was previously nonchalant, glee now bubbles to the surface, spilling over into your ear like ichor. “You’re _stalling.”_

The car door locks shut with a soft click. “Maybe I just wanted to hear your voice.” 

“That so?”

“You calling me a liar, Mr. Beck?” 

“Well _,_ ” he starts, and you nearly trip over your own two feet at the sudden silk of his voice. He sounds positively _sinful._ “I do like to please.” Quentin chuckles, rich and dark and rolling straight through your abdomen. “Are you _satisfied_?” 

The keys in your palm bite into the flesh. 

_Darling,_ you think. _I feel a bit north the side of a typhoon._

Raw electric over wire, pandemonium _drip drip dripping_ down to languidly fill your cheeks with sleeping anticipation. And all those thoughts crinkling like cheap plastic behind your teeth. _There is hollow ground here._

“Not quite,” you say, very quietly. 

The owl-eyed woman in the back left corner dips her chin in greeting as you step into the elevator. You smooth down your skirt and stare at the white painted glass panels, watching the way your image refracts against the glossy reflective surface. Varnish. Your head is hazy and cool, near swaying to the anxious pound in your chest. _Relax,_ you scold yourself.

“Everything alright?” Quentin asks, just as you realize the average lull in conversation has become not so average.

“Of course,” you breathe. The floors continue to count up, your nerves _drip drip dripping_ downback to ground one. Soon you will be fully emptied out. “More than.” When you laugh, your reflection smiles back, as if in secret. 

Quentin says your name slowly. His voice is hard and flinty, and you know he’s finally figured you out. “Where are you, darling?” 

“Surprise! I know you’ve been caught up at work so I decided to visit!”

“I _don’t_ _thin_ –”

You hang up with a pleased tap together of your heels. 

You cover your mouth and giggle. The gaze of the woman behind you burns into the back of your head. 

Tempestuous. You’ve always liked the term tempestuous. Blustering and cloud-hung, something like an angry sky being held back by ocean. An upspring of revelation strangled in black water.

“Well here’s my stop.”

Doors open. Close.

When you step out into the hallway, it is disconcertingly silent.

You make your way into the odd darkness. "Hello?“ Confusion mixed with inklings of dread creep up your spine, trepidation lining your movements.

Hyperattentive, your conscience suddenly screams in acute warning, but no amount of preparation can protect you from the abrupt grip that clutches tight onto your forearm.

You _scream_.

The force viciously tugs you back, back, spiralling directly into an endless abyss as a

door 

slams

_shut._

You hang up with a pleased tap together of your heels.

You cover your mouth and giggle. You’re dizzy now, for some reason. The woman behind you twists her mouth in pity. 

Tempestuous. You’ve always liked the term tempestuous. Blustering and cloud-hung, something like an angry sky being held back by ocean. An upspring of revelation strangled in black water.

“Well here’s my stop.”

Doors open. Close.

When you step out of the elevator into the hallway, it is disconcertingly silent.

You make your way into the odd darkness. "Hello?” Confusion mixed with inklings of dread shoot up your spine, trepidation lining your movements.

Hyperattentive, your conscience suddenly screams in acute warning, but no amount of preparation can protect you from the abrupt grasp that clutches tight onto your forearm. You scream in delight as it viciously tugs you back, back, directly into a firm chest. 

“ _Hello._ “

You shiver against the mouth at your neck.

"Hey, yourself.” Affection quickly becomes indignation, and you frown. “How did you know I was coming?”

“You should know better than to think that you can surprise me, sweetheart,” The typhoon says, smoothly spinning you around in his arms to face him. You go to reply, but find your mouth going dry.

Quentin Beck is dressed to impress, all crisp and clean corners wrapped up in a crooked smile, moon-cold eyes raking down your form. It takes recognizable effort not to let your mouth hang open.

“My, my.” His smile widens into a sharp grin, teeth straight and white. “Aren’t you pretty?”

You clear your throat, hoping your breathlessness hasn’t shown on your face. “This looks like a choking hazard,” you quip, looping your fingers in his tie to give it a short loosening tug.

“And sweet too?” The weight of his heated gaze is a near physical thing. “What did I do to deserve this?”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” you raise your eyebrows, resting your hand on his collar for another second before backing off to give you both some space. You lurch sideways in the process from a split-second bout of nausea. _Something is wrong._

He waggles his own eyebrows at you suggestively and you snort, shoving him in the side. “ _Behave,_ Quentin _.” Nothing is wrong._

“Ready to go?” He asks, pressing the button for the first floor. You blink. When had you gotten into the elevator?

“Sure,” you mutter. “Just let me grab my umbrella.“

"Why would you have an umbrella?” He asks easily.

You frown. You glance down at your dry pants. He’s right. It wasn’t raining? Of course it wasn’t raining.

“Nevermind,” you say. It doesn’t matter.

On the way out of the building, you see the same woman from before. (Where had you seen her?) Something flashes over her face when you meet eyes, roiling like water over a boiling pot–guilt?–and she opens her mouth, as if to say something, but closes it instantly. She instead offers a curt nod to Quentin before disappearing from sight.

“I reserved seats at that place you like,” Quentin singsongs, drawing your attention effectively. You perk up.

“You mean the one with the–”

“–good alfredo–?” the two of you say simultaneously.

You gape at his audacity and he laughs, goodnatured. “You’ve only told me a thousand times.”

“Isn’t it too early?”

A police car whizzes by on the main road, washing you in reds and blues, neon against the black of deep night pressing around you. You _startle_. _(Wait. Yes. Yes, of_ course _.)_ It doesn’t matter.

Quentin looks more at home than you’d ever seen him, out here in the dark, the explosion of colours blinking in and out across his form only highlighting the cunning continuously bleeding out of his very skin. He is unnervingly still. Moving shadows converge around him as if drawn by magnet, and you think you wouldn’t be surprised if he turned and shed his skin right there, blossoming into some otherworldly thing. You can’t help the soft breath that escapes you. His eyes flick down to catch your stare, and he visibly softens.

“What do you see?” Quentin murmurs, uncharacteristically sober.

“I should be asking that question,” you say, equally as quiet. He may be looking straight at you, but he is entirely someplace else.

His mouth twitches. “The future.”

“How is it?”

Quentin trembles, smiling like a broken television. “ _Glorious_.”

The world blurs. Your cheeks are wet. Why?

It doesn’t matter.

“Now,” Quentin reaches for your hand _._

 _It doesn’t matter._

He brings it up to his lips with flawless grace, kissing your knuckles gently.

“I believe a date was in order?”


End file.
